“Trouble?” Tex asks, his face appearing at the open window. He’s followed us over, his smile looking a little tired around the edges now.
“Battery’s dead,” I say, the frustration making my voice sharp.
“I’ll drive you,” he says immediately, gesturing toward his massive, mud-splattered truck. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Billy, who has materialized behind him, just grunts. “Make sure she gets home, Tex,” he says, a low, cold rumble directed at his brother, not me.
Then he turns and walks away, his strides long and purposeful, disappearing toward the main house without a single glance in my direction. The dismissal is as clean and sharp as a knife cut, and it twists in my gut.
Clara and I climb into Tex’s truck, the high seat giving us a panoramic view of the ranch.
Tex whistles a tuneless song as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a beat on the dashboard. He and Clara fall into an easy conversation.
He tells her about the annual Fall Harvest Festival, describing the pumpkin patch and the hay maze with such enthusiasm that she’s captivated. She asks about the rodeo, and he launches into a story about a particularly stubborn bull he once had to ride, hands gesturing wildly, voice full of life.
I just stare out the window, watching the pastures roll by, a beautiful painting of a place that no longer feels like home.
“So what’s the procedure now?” Tex asks, breaking off his conversation with Clara to glance at me. “With the samples, I mean.”
“I’ll mail them to my boss’s lab in New York,” I say, detached, as if I’m talking about someone else’s problem. “They have the equipment to get a definitive diagnosis much faster. They should have the results within forty-eight hours. I’ll have them sentdirectly to Dr. Morales so he can figure out a treatment plan from his end.”
“Why not you?” Tex asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. He slows the truck slightly, turning to look at me. “I mean, you’re the one who’s been doing all the work. You’re the one who figured out what was wrong. Shouldn’t the results come to you?”
I take a deep breath, the words feeling heavy and final on my tongue.
“Because I might not be here. I’m actually thinking of just leaving for New York.”
The truck swerves violently, the tires skidding on the loose gravel. Tex slams on the brakes, the truck lurching to a halt with a screech.
He throws it into park, the engine still rumbling. He turns in his seat, his face a mask of stark disbelief, all his earlier cheerfulness gone.
“You can’t leave.” His voice is stripped of all its charm. “Sedona, you can’t be serious. The town needs you. The ranches need you. What about the cattle? What if this gets worse? What if it spreads?”
A sad, hollow smile touches my lips. “They already have a capable doctor on call. Dr. Morales is more than qualified to handle whatever comes next. Prairie Pine will be fine.”
“Don’t do this, Sedona,” he pleads, his eyes searching mine, a desperate, raw plea in them that makes my chest ache. “Don’t run away again. Not like last time.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, the one that feels like it’s made of glass and regret. I look away from his desperate face, out the window at the endless, sprawling hills of Prairie Pine.
They’re beautiful, I know they are, but all I can see is the past. All I can feel is the weight of it.
“It’s what’s best for everyone involved,” I say, a final sentence passed down on a life I can no longer live.
The silence in the truck after my declaration is a suffocating thing. It’s not the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but the tense silence of a bomb about to go off.
Tex just stares at me, his face pale, his mouth slightly agape, as if I’ve just told him I’m moving to Mars. Clara puts a hand on my arm, but I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the endless rolling hills that suddenly feel like the bars of a cage.
Tex finally puts the truck back in drive. He doesn’t speak. He just drives, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his usual jaunty whistling completely absent.
The landscape flies by, a beautiful panorama of a life I’m choosing to leave. Again.
I see the turnoff for Iron Horse Ranch, the dust kicking up behind a distant tractor. I see the sign for The Dusty Boot, its neon lights dark in the morning sun.
Each landmark is a memory, a ghost, and I feel a fresh wave of resolve. This is the right choice. It has to be.
When he pulls up to my father’s house, he cuts the engine, but he doesn’t get out right away. He just sits there, staring at the peeling white paint, the sagging porch swing.
“This was your dad’s favorite place in the whole world,” he says, rough with emotion. “He loved this porch. Said you could see the whole valley from here.”
